


Five Times Merlin Runs Away From Home

by papiermachete



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur is Merlin's home is what I mean, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Merlin, Destiny, Gen, Isle of the Blessed (Merlin), M/M, Magic, Royal Merlin (Merlin), Running Away, also Freya and Will are sorta there, also Morgana is good in this fic, also i do compare Christianity and the old religion, also merlin does engage in relationships with other people but it's not that big of a deal, but it's not meant to be offensive, but not really explored here i guess, kinda like a character study?, merthur is endgame and hinted at in the end, the main point of the story is Merlin's self-discovery through his adventures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papiermachete/pseuds/papiermachete
Summary: Merlin's journey of self-discovery through some unconventional adventures.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 68





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this is my first time writing for the Merlin fandom, although I've been obsessed with it for quite a long time, and I've finally come up with something to contribute. I've been working on this for a few months, so I hope everyone likes it, unbetaed and all. I basically have this whole thing done, so look forward to this whole thing being posted really soon I guess. Some of the later chapters will be longer, lol. Please be nice and enjoy reading!

Prince Merlin, at age seven, does not take being scolded by his tutor, Gaius, very well. Flames pitch in his cheeks, and he crosses his arms in an attempt to distance himself from the situation. It doesn’t matter why he’s being scolded (for running amuck the castle and setting fire to various tapestries to amuse Will), just that he feels that he is suffering a grave injustice. An injustice that could only be righted by inflicting a similar injustice to his parents; he thinks running away would do just fine.

Alone in his room, twilight shining through the window, Merlin focuses a coil of magic in crafting a rudimentary valise from the wood of his headboard, and he uses another ringlet of magic to shove his possessions in as quickly as possible. He had confessed to Will beforehand of his intentions, so he feels his conscious clear as he levitates the valise behind him, careful to tiptoe around the palace. His bare feet reject the ice of the stone floor, but Merlin doesn’t have time to run back for socks. He hasn’t quite mastered the invisibility spell, something he will regret not sticking around for, but the sooner he escapes, the harder it will be for his family to track him down. Down the winding stairs, he winces at the echo of pattering that seems to boom in his ears. He knows that if a patrolling guard were to pass by, he would easily be caught, so he rushes down quickly as he can.

Merlin exits the castle and is hit full-force when the chill of the night slams into him, but his magic shields him instinctively seconds later. Like a rustling cloak, gold sparks shimmer iridescently around him, acting both a shield and a lantern for the path set in front of him. Laid out along the way are well to-do huts that reach into the sky and battle for height, each one individually crafted by the sorcerers who built this kingdom. Merlin has always marveled at the cacophony of the marketplace and the fountains of magic that spray passerby during the day; at night he feels a different wonder, knowing that each citizen of his realm is peacefully tucked up in bed, dreaming like he should be. The young prince laments that he will never return to this place that smells of fresh bread in the mornings and of the marigolds at night. He lifts a hand to pull moisture out of the air, bestowing it upon a wilting flower, trying to offset the strange cool in his chest with the warmth of doing magic, and it works somewhat. 

He sets off further into the city, wondering what his parents will do with his room once they discover he is gone. Sentimentally, he wishes for his parents to keep it the way he left it, as if he will always have a home there, but he also realizes the importance of giving rooms and shelter to those in need. A room fit for a prince could house several for months, and it is a bittersweet thought that in leaving his parents behind, he is able to do some good for others as well.

A light in a hut directly to the left of him flickers on, and Merlin recognizes it to be Freya’s hut.

Merlin knows that Freya is cursed to be a bastet a night, and he is told that when Freya comes of age, hopefully having mastered her curse, the bastet will be a fierce protector of the city. For now, Freya’s bastet form is like an overgrown kitten. 

A mewl sounds from the hut, and the door of it screeches open. Curiously, Freya looks up at Merlin, dark eyes peering into his own. She paws into the dirt, stretching down into the earth before launching onto Merlin’s shoulder. The young prince fights to keep his balance, but tumbles anyway. His head slams into the ground, but his magic manages to cushion the fall for him. 

He can feel the pinch of Freya’s claws in his chest, and her tail swooshes across his vision, resting gently on his cheek. He stares up at the sky for a little bit, trying to make out the constellation his father, King Balinor, pointed out to him last week.

No. His magic warns him to be aware of the passage of time. A while has passed since he left his room, and the sunrise is fast approaching. If Merlin is to successfully run away, he needs to be gone before that happens. 

He will miss Freya, but he does what he must by shoving her off his chest, wincing to hear her yawp. He jumps to his feet, careful to suppress an on-coming yawn, and breaks off into a sprint. He is afraid to stick around in case Freya decides to wake up half the lower town in order to prevent his escape.

At the gates of his kingdom, that is where he finally hears the soft chimes from the castle, the warning of his escape that he has been expecting. However, it is a sound he hasn’t heard before. Danger is usually signaled through a ringing of a bell. This tone is soothing and makes his eyes want to flutter close, like when his mother sings to him to soothe the pain of a skinned knee. This time it acts as a net meant to catch him. Like the echoes down the castle steps, this sound is dangerously amplified, and he fights off the new waves of exhaustion by sprinting off. 

Merlin, admittedly, is surprised by how far he’s been able to run without even signs of search parties. He knows he’s gotten far because he reaches the Dragon’s Vale, a place he has never been to before, only seen on maps. 

The vale is marked by a fence of colorful magic and, for those without a sixth sense, poles stuck into the ground every so often, pointy and painted red. It is a warning, but Merlin is a prince, and he has not yet left the land that his parents protect. As long as he stays within the borders of his kingdom, he is sure that he will be safe. Magic protects magic and all that rot.

The Dragon’s Vale is a man-made biome. It has deserts situated next to forests that suck up rain, and a river to demarcate the two ecosystems. There is a mountain range farther off, no doubt with caves to house dragons, and even a tundra that plateaus mountains on the very edges of the vale. It’s suitable for all types of dragons; a refuge for dragons that fear to explore the non-magical lands without being shot down by archers. Especially for those that fear Camelot, his kingdom’s closest neighbor and fiercest enemy.

Merlin enters cautiously into the forested environment and looks up curiously to see dragon scales illuminated in the sunlight atop tree canopies. How the trees are able to sustain so much weight, Merlin is not sure. He has been frightened by too many stories of cracked branches to chance climbing up trees with Will, who sits metres up in the air and blows raspberries at Merlin. There are not only dragons up in the leaves, but fruit hanging down haphazardly. Merlin feels his stomach grumble. He reaches up to grab an apple, but his arms falls short. Instead, a magical limb plucks one and drops it into Merlin’s hands.

“Young Warlock, what do you think you are doing?” Merlin startles at the sharp tone of voice, and for a moment he thinks that Gaius has finally found him and is ready to take Merlin home by his ears. Instead, when Merlin turns around, he is faced with dark, gleaming leather. Tilting his head a few inches up, intense eyes from the beast stare down at him. How could such a monstrous dragon have snuck up on him?

“Do I have to repeat my question once more, little prince? I shall ask you again, why have you left your home to consume fruit in my lands? You are not safe here. Not yet.” The voice from the dragon is a weathered as his skin, and Merlin imagines that this dragon must be centuries old. 

Merlin chooses his words carefully, “I have need of a new home.”

The dragon chuckles, and the vibrations move the earth around Merlin, causing the young sorcerer to fall flat on his behind. “And why is that?”

“Because I am no longer wanted there. And I should be places where I am wanted, not places where I am not. That doesn’t make any sense.” Merlin absentmindedly considers the red fruit in his hand, squeezing like his mother taught him to see if it is ripe. It is, so he softly crunches on it, feeling the juices fall down his arm and gather in the crevice of his elbow. It is refreshing and works to tide off the residual effects of the magic lullaby from earlier.

“No, young warlock, it does not make sense at all. Tell me, why has your home grown tired of you?”

Suddenly, Merlin is suspicious. The corners of his mouth curl down, and he no longer wants to talk to this dragon who may be a spy for his father. “It just has, okay? I owe you no explanation.”

The dragon beats his wings, snorting. “Perhaps not. Tell me, boy, have you ever wondered what it is like to ride a dragon?” 

Honestly, yes. Merlin has wondered every day since he saw a drawing in one of the texts that Gaius gave him about dragons and their lords. Merlin does not know what it is like to levitate, let alone fly, and he is sure it would be the experience of a lifetime. After all, the young prince has never been afraid of heights. 

But Merlin does not trust the dragon before him, and the two sides of him war. On the one hand, a chance to brag about riding a dragon to Will; on the other hand, a chance that the dragon could take him back to his home. In the end, Merlin decides that he will have another opportunity to run away from home, but he may never again be offered a chance to ride on the back of a fire-breathing beast.

“What is your name, Mister Dragon?” Merlin asks, climbing aback the dragon as best he can, feet scrabbling against the scales. 

“My name is Kilgharrah, young prince. I must say, I didn’t expect you to try to break from your destiny so early in life, even before you have properly learned it.” Kilgharrah goes on to say something Merlin doesn’t understand. Even with his large ears, as soon as Kilgharrah lifts off the ground, Merlin can barely hear the dragon over the gusts of wind anyway. Looking down, Merlin sees the sand dunes and clear river filled with leaping fish laid out below him, and even the silhouette of his castle that he was in only a few hours earlier. Looking up, Merlin bends farther and farther back until he is lying down on the dragon, watching magenta paint the morning sky. Eventually, it is the absence of thought that lulls Merlin to sleep, the peacefulness of the morning the most effective lullaby.

When Merlin wakes up, it is tucked under the covers, his things placed back to where they were, and his makeshift suitcase molded back into his bed.

And to another scolding, this time from his mum, which transfers the magenta from earlier into his cheeks once more.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer that this is a fantasy world and any discussions of religion do not necessarily reflect my own beliefs

The second time Merlin decides to run away, he is quite a bit older. When he becomes thirteen, his parents officially announce their desire for Merlin to be the next heir to the throne. 

Everyone in the kingdom has known this has been coming for a long time, but the citizens still hold a celebration feast. In the seat of honor, Merlin secures the silver metal around his ears, fit for a crown prince. His parents have deigned to stay back in the castle for a private dinner, but Merlin is still accompanied by a select few palace guards (mostly to protect him from grumpy Old Man Simmons, who Merlin has been known to tick off). Will sits many feet down the table, barely in viewing distance. Instead, at his right is the leader of the merchants’ guild, Allen Porth. The servants have all been invited to partake in this feast, so Merlin generously uses his magic to pour everyone’s drinks and keep their plates full. 

By the time the sun is down, a bonfire is lit from leftover straw. The druids, who had visited the castle in honor of the grand declaration, start pounding on drums for music, and eventually there is a circle of dancing. Couples twirl around each other and fathers lift their children off their feet in exaggerated fun. Even Old Man Simmons waves around his hat drunkenly. 

Merlin is starting to suspect that this feast was more for the villagers than for him.

Merlin’s gangly legs swing in his chair before he hops out entirely. Merlin hopes to find Freya before she transforms for the night. Closing his eyes and studying the darkness behind his lids intently, eventually Merlin can envision the town from an eagle’s view. He zeroes in on Freya’s wavy tresses, and watches himself as he makes his way toward her hut. Freya is rocking in a chair just to the left of the door to her hut, and Merlin tilts his head curiously at the sight. He did not realize that Freya started knitting.

The blue scarf is sloppily knotted together, and Merlin knows that if Will were to see this, he would burst into guffaws and make the poor girl cry. It’s almost finished, the prince can tell, and he wonders if it’s for him.

He hopes it is. 

A minute later, Freya grins as she loops the last knot and ties off the ends. She experimentally wraps it around her own neck before carefully folding it and tucking it into a leather bag. The young girl glances around carefully, and Merlin ducks out of her view. “Will!” she calls out. She rushes out into the crowd, and taps on someone’s shoulder. Merlin stretches his hearing in time for the stranger to point to the left. He sneaks a couple feet behind Freya as best he can, trying to avoid being waylaid by a reverent drunkard.

Eventually, the elusive Will is found sitting beside a druid drummer who guides Will’s hands to the beat. The druid is an older man with a graying beard, and he happily steps aside for Will to take over, even as Will slowly descends further and further from tempo. From time to time, the druid beats on the drum with his cane to reset Will. Merlin watches Freya watch Will for awhile, the young girl clenching her fists before striding in front of the floppy-haired youth.

“Will! I made this for you!” Freya is overly loud in her nervousness, and it shows even more in the fumbling of her fingers when she tries to grab the blue scarf and present it to Will.

Merlin winces, anticipating Will’s mockery. Instead, Will smiles softly at Freya before looping it around his neck. Suddenly, Merlin notices a similarly made bracelet that hangs off Will’s wrist.

Freya has never made anything like that for him. 

Merlin knows that you can’t always “get the girl”. Just because he’s the crown prince now doesn’t and shouldn’t mean that everything will fall at his feet. Even his magic doesn’t do that, requiring special lessons and spells to be properly concentrated. But with Freya, Merlin felt like their friendship was like an arrow that shoots straight in the middle of a target. He thought that it was the same for Freya, that the bullseye was the start of a slow and sweet courtship. 

Bitterly, Merlin wondered what Will had even done to court her. Had he ever spontaneously brought her flowers picked from the courtyard or gone to keep her company as a bastet?

Merlin is aware that he is starting to bring attention to himself, standing motionless in the middle of the crowd. He is aware that merchant, Allen Porth, is approaching, and it feels like everyone is closing in on him. Irrationally, he thinks that everyone must have known but him, and maybe they even invited him to this celebration to taunt him. Teach him the lesson of humility, perhaps. 

He thinks they can shove their lessons of humility. 

This second time Merlin doesn’t bother to pack anything. He notices that the guards sent to “protect” him are busy dancing, and easily slips off to the edge of the city gates. Merlin never leaves the city, excepting that first time when he attempted to run away. It simply isn’t necessary. Up until now, he hasn’t been considered old enough to go off on trips to meet outside villages and settle disputes with bandits. It’s been more important for him to learn through the daily routine of castle life. But some part of him has yearned to go through the gates again, missing the freedom that came with rushing through the woodlands and watching animals lap up water in the springs. His father does not allow hunting for pleasure, so the deer and birds were abundant in their numbers, gallivanting about. Even the danger that came with bandits felt like an adrenaline rush for the young prince who had never used combat or even defensive magic in a real situation before. Merlin was obviously sheltered, but the natural beauty of the earth called out to him in a way; he wondered if the same feeling caused the druids to be nomads. 

Walking out in the open is a feeling Merlin is more able to appreciate the second time around. At night, the forest is noisy. He can hear the shifting blades of grass and even the nocturnal owls that hunt. He smacks a rogue mosquito that lands on his lower leg and sets out to see if he remembers the way to the dragon’s vale, having studied the maps on his father’s wall in much detail since 6 years ago. 

Funnily enough, his memory fails him. Merlin hits the side of his head in an attempt to think more clearly, but ends up rubbing at his temples when a headache starts to build. Instead, he refers to his internal compass and tries to go west. Nevermind that Camelot is to the east, and that something in his magic urges him to go that way; west leads to the coast. Merlin has yet to see the sea with his own eyes.

-

He travels steadily for hours, snapping his fingers to create a sort of airhorn that re-alerts his senses whenever he feels his eyelashes seal to his cheeks. Merlin is surprised when he finally comes across a hamlet. There is an organized system of houses, and in the middle is a giant building with a huge cross atop it. The village is empty, and it seems that all the villagers have gathered in this great big center. Merlin approaches closer and sees the villagers all paying attention to a man that stands in the front cloaked in black. Merlin winces, knowing that the man must be dying of heat exhaustion. 

The man seems to be reading from some sort of book, and Merlin knows what religion they must belong to. He has heard of it before, of course, it’s the Christian Religion, second only to his own, the Old Religion. However, none of the villagers within the city practice it, and Merlin is surprised to learn that the Christians seem to have created their own book club. 

Merlin decides to slip inside for a little bit, closing the door respectfully behind him, and wonders at the basins of water placed in front of him. He hesitates for a moment before bypassing them entirely. He sits down in the very back row far away from everyone else. 

The man in front reads for a bit, and, to Merlin, it sounds like a story. The man describes the building of a great tower rising many metres into the sky that many people collaborated on until, suddenly, a great man in the sky strikes it down and curses the people so that they cannot understand each other. To Merlin, it sounds like a cautionary tale about the importance of balance. 

The man in black explains it a bit differently, speaking against the terribleness of arrogance. He claims that the reason they were struck down is because they refused to follow the rules of life and go about life the honorable way, instead resorting to trickery to get what they wanted.

Merlin raises his hand, and the man tilts his head curiously but dismisses him. A little confused, Merlin grunts and shakes his hand from side-to-side, waiting to be called on. Merlin knows this technique from Gaius, the wait-until-I’m-finished-talking forced ignorance. The problem for Merlin is that he’s afraid he will forget what he wants to say, and in order not to forget, he tends to chant the words inside his brain, and so it doesn’t matter what Gaius goes on to say because Merlin is no longer listening. 

The speaker continues to ignore him and instead starts to sing in a weak, off-pitch voice that makes Merlin wince. The entire village joins in, and everyone seems to know the words, or at least the general tune. Finally, after a couple of minutes, the cacophony ends, and everyone rises to their feet. 

The crown prince is a bit confused, watching everyone leave. It didn’t seem like much of a book club, with only one man speaking. Instead, it reminded him of watching his parents listen to quarrels and judge with a supreme authority. He wonders if the man in front is supposed to be the leader of the hamlet and decides to go up to the man who is still poised at the front of the room. 

“Excuse me, sir, but may I ask you something?”

The man considers Merlin for a little bit, and Merlin notices that the man’s eyes are stuck on Merlin’s ears for a couple seconds more than necessary. “Of course, child. What is it that you wish to ask?”

“Well, I was confused about what you said earlier. About how the people resorted to trickery to get what they wanted. What exactly did they want?”

The man smiles, “Well, of course, they wanted to get to heaven.”

Merlin does not match the man’s smile. “Heaven? But, Avalon is not in the sky. And besides,  
if you were to create a very tall tower, you would reach space, not heaven.”

“Excuse me, boy, but who exactly are you anyway?” spits out the man, doing a complete one-eighty in expression right in front of Merlin’s eyes. “Are you a pagan, a worshiper of the false religion? What right have you to step inside this holy place? Get out, right now.” The man raises a book in warning, and Merlin hops back frightened. He has never had anyone raise a hand to him before, and he never suspected this man who had seemed so peaceful before would be the first. Merlin walks backward slowly, being sure not to let the man come too close before his back thuds against the walls of the building. He fumbles with the door and leaves quickly.

Outside, the hamlet seems to have sparked new life. Now that the strange gathering is over, people seem to be preparing for lunch. A young child sits in front of her house playing with a doll stuffed with straw, and a couple of teens his age seem to be brooding against the side of the church.

Merlin decides to approach the teens, for a moment wishing for the familiarity of Will and Freya to chase away the strange terror he felt facing the man in the black robes. Unlike the druids, it seemed that the people of this Christian religion were more open to violence. “Excuse me,” Merlin waves a hand at them. 

“Who are you? You’re not from around here.” is the immediate response.

“Well,” Merlin scrambles, not wanting to give out his real name. “I’m from a nearby village. I was sent out by my mam to take a trip easterly. I’m Gale.”

One of the three teens, with straw-coloured hair, puts his hand out. “I’m Finne. This is Imogen and Lear. Why did you decide to stop here of all places?”

“Um, well, I was curious as to what your village was doing earlier.”

“You mean, going to church?” the girl, Imogen he assumes, speaks up. “We do that every Sunday morning to worship. My mother says that way we won’t go to hell.”

“Oh, Imogen, your mum is a simpleton anyway,” the last one, Lear rebuts. “The only reason we go to church ‘so they can lecture us kids about being kids. It seems like everythin’ we do is a sin in someone’s eyes, even if it ain’t God’s.”

“Hey!”

Merlin swipes back a loose black hair behind his ear. “In my village, we don’t go to church. Instead, we follow the Old Religion.” 

“Wot’s that?” Lear asks. “I ain’t ever heard of it.” 

Merlin resists the urge to gasp. To him, not knowing of the Old Religion is not knowing that you live on earth. Not knowing that the sun will rise every morning and that eventually the rains will come. The Old Religion is embedded everywhere. “You don’t know what the Old Religion is?” His eyes flare gold as he makes a whistle of leaves rustle from the ground and brush past their cheeks. “That’s the old religion.”

The three teens’ eyes widen in awe, having seen the colour change of Merlin’s normally blue eyes. “You mean, magic?”

“Yes. I mean, sort of. The Old Religion is a little more than magic, but, like, that’s basically it.” Merlin’s not sure how to explain it more than that. To him, he has grown up swaddled in the Old Religion. His sixth sense has always given him an innate understanding of it. Even people like Will, who don’t have Merlin’s gift, have always known what the Old Religion is and its meaning to his kingdom. 

Only a couple hours walk from the city, but there is such a disconnect from his home and this one. 

“Can you show us some more?” Imogen cautiously asks.

“Wait! Not here,” Finne says, glancing around. “Father Jameson says magic is a sin. Follow us.” 

The three lead him away from the village for a little while, and he follows behind slowly. His stomach starts to growl at him for he hasn’t eaten since the night before, and Merlin tries to identify some berries on the walk towards their destination. Eventually, the group reaches a clearing on the top of a hill.

From the top is the most beautiful sight Merlin has ever seen: the ocean. 

It’s unlike the clear streams that run alongside the city, or even the depths of the well that Merlin almost fell into once. It’s a wide expanse of solely water that sparkles. His breath is captured, and all he wants to do is roll down the hill until he splashes into the water, dunking his head under the ocean waves and gasping for air.

“Gale!” Finne shouts beside his ear. “Show us what you can do!” 

Merlin smirks a little bit, taking another glimpse of the shimmering water below. He whispers a spell underneath his breath, and suddenly a great big waves crests over the horizon. The young prince stretches his hand out in front of him, lifting and lifting and watching as the wave rises in return. Then he pulls his hand tightly into his chest. The water responds in kind, and the terrible height of the ocean crashes down, sliding up the hill, farther than it probably ever has, at Merlin request. As the water slims down, Merlin makes sure a final gathering reaches the peak of the hill, just enough to dampen his shoes. 

“Woah.” 

“How did you do that?” Finne asks, taking a surreptitious step away from Merlin. “I’ve . . . never seen anything like it.”

“Magic was something I was born with. It’s not a sinful thing. It’s the most natural thing in the world to me.”

Imogen steps forward, her eyes glistening. “Do something else. Please.” She resists Finne, who tries to pull her back by her elbow. 

This time Merlin barely has to raise a hand. His eyes attach to a branch above, and he laughs as it thunks down onto Lear’s head. “Ow! Was that you?” Lear demands, pointing a finger. 

“You didn’t even say anything that time,” Imogen states reverently. “Say something with a spell, so we can hear it. Please. I want to hear it.”

“Laothe!” Merlin makes sure to shout the word for good measure. “Laothe.” The branch that hit Lear now rises from the floor, and he levitates it into his palms. “Here,” he hands over the branch to Imogen. “Do you want to try it?”

“Yes. Yes, please, can I? Will it work?”

Merlin still has yet to hone any magical detection. For sorcerers like his father, it is fairly easy to tell. Otherwise, any low-level magic that doesn’t burst out from the skin is undetectable by Merlin. He doesn’t know for sure if Imogen has the capacity to control magic. “Just, try it. It might work.”

“Laothe.” Imogen whispers. The branch doesn’t rustle. “Laothe!”

“Laothe,” he can hear Finne mutter. “What a dumb word. What does Laothe even mean?” Unbeknownst to Finne, Merlin can feel some trickle of magic surround the branch. 

“Finne, you’re doing it!” Imogen cries, watching at the branch stumbles like a newborn fawn. “Say it again.”

Locking eyes with the branch, Finne repeats it once more. “Laothe.” The branch lifts out of Imogen’s hands for a second. It defies gravity for just a moment before clattering to the ground. “Is that what magic feels like?” he asks, a little dreamily.

Merlin grins. There’s no better explanation for what the Old Religion is than feeling it for yourself. 

-

When the sun starts to set, Merlin feels a sort of ache in his heart. He knows what it is, having seen the trio of teens push and shove each other as old friends who definitely grew up together. Not even magic is enough of a balm for the want he feels. 

“I better be going home now,” Merlin pipes up. The four of them resorted to cloud-watching an hour ago, and Merlin entertained them for a while by manipulating the clouds into funny faces and animals. He even tried to teach Finne for a little bit, but it seemed the clouds were too far out of Finne’s reach. “I made it to the ocean after all, which is what Mam wanted. If I don’t get home she’ll be worried.”

“You shouldn’t go out at night!” Lear protests. “We haven’t even eaten lunch. You’ll be hungry and tired. I’m sure Mum will put you up for the night if you need.”

“No,” Merlin appreciates the effort, but if he waits too long before going home he knows the punishment would be too severe. “Actually, my mam didn’t actually tell me to go out. I kinda left on my own. I think if I wait any longer to get home, Mam might murder me.” 

Finne chuckles, “Of course you did, Gale. Got all the magic in the world, yet you’re still afraid of your mum just like the rest of us. Let us at least steal you some food for the journey.” The group descends down the hill, but Merlin takes a moment to admire the reflection of the sun on the water.

By the time Merlin is ready to leave, he has a hefty meal packed in a new rucksack that he shrugs onto his back. 

“Be sure to visit us,” Imogen grins. “I’m sure Finne here is just dying to have another magic lesson.”

Surprisingly, Merlin watches Finne’s cheek flush. “Yeah. Sure.” Merlin smiles weakly, but wonders if he ever will have another chance to visit the three. Becoming crown prince, his days are only going to get more busy as he assumes more responsibility. He turns around, waving his hand behind him and determined not to look back.

A couple seconds pass.

“Merlin, wait!” Feet pound the few metres he’s walked away, and a warm hand grasps his arm. Cracked lips brush Merlin’s cheek for barely a moment, and Merlin settles his palm on the spot, his lips open in shock.

“Bye,” Finne whispers softly before rushing back.

Merlin goes back in a daze, barely paying attention to how the guards erupt into chaos when he comes into their view. They shout and scold, and when he’s brought back inside, his mother does the same. “Where were you?” “Do you know how worried we were?” “We thought you had grown out of this!” “You are in big trouble, young man!”

All Merlin can think about is Finne’s shimmering eyes bidding Merlin goodbye.


	3. Three

In five years, Merlin will run away for the last time. However, as Merlin packs the rucksack he was gifted only mere months ago, Merlin promises himself that he will have no more attempts at running away; he is determined to get it right on the third time. Especially now that his motivation is the strongest yet. 

He has discovered his father’s cheating habits.

Like a curl of poison smoke, the image of his father’s rough hands on the maid in the spare bedroom slowly caused him to stop breathing. The soft and rough noises, the deep kisses, the way his father stared into the strange woman’s eyes. 

As soon as he had continued to function, Merlin stopped his father’s wrongdoings. His magic slammed his father across the room, and the impact caused a slight cave in. “Go!” he roared at the maid, unsure of his ability to resist choking the poor woman. And yet, if he had given in, Merlin wasn’t sure how remorseful he would actually be; the woman had known exactly what she had been doing. She had seen her opportunity to swoop in and cause a wedge between his beloved mother and father, and his father had let this woman have her way like the absolute snake he was. 

“Merlin!” Balinor shouted at his son. “Release me this instant.” Sparks of magic flickered in the coil around the king, and Merlin fought to relax his magic. The veins in his right hand popped out unnaturally, the blood boiling underneath his skin. 

“Why should I?”

“Because I am still your father!” cried out Balinor, and even in the small niche in the wall, Balinor’s voice still echoed with authority. “And still your King!”

Merlin snarled back at his father, “You are no father or king of mine, you who has no respect for his wife and kingdom.” Regardless, Merlin loosened the ropes of magic around his father. Balinor took the opportunity to step forward and place a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. Balinor’s long hair hung in tangles around his cheeks, and Merlin grabbed a strand, pulling Balinor straight to his face. “Don’t you dare touch me old man.

“How long has this been going on?” He could feel his father’s breath on his face, hot and quick, and he monitored it to see if his father would tell him the truth. “How long have you been cheating on Mum? Tell me!” In his fury, he redirected his magic to slam the door shut, making sure that no one would be able to listen in. “Tell me, does she know of your infidelity? You worm!” The overwhelming urge to smack his father had rose to the surface, but he held it back in tenuous chains.

“Not long. Laney and I have only recently been acquainted.”

“How recently? Answer me!” Merlin released the strands of hair, and turned away, not truly wanting to hear his father’s answer. He’d wanted to deny it, to walk out of this closet and leave his father there. He’d wanted to pinch himself and wake up from this cruel nightmare, maybe laugh about its silliness with Will. 

But he couldn’t. He owed it to his mother to find the truth and deliver it to her. 

“Two months.”

The crown prince scoffed. In the entire scheme of their marriage, two months is barely a speck on a perfect record. His father probably used that to justify it. Thought that perhaps he deserved a passing fling after years of dedication. And yet, how long would this have carried on if Merlin hadn’t stopped it? Would Balinor have continued it for another month? A year? Would he have brought this Laney with him to soil his parents’ shared bed sheets? Would he have eventually forsaken his queen and crowned a new one? Millions of questions popped up in Merlin’s head, so much so that he was deaf with rage when Balinor spoke up again, ignoring whatever he may have said.

“Listen to me, you toad. You are going to tell Mum by tonight, or else!” Merlin could think up a million ‘or else’s, like severing his father’s neck with a sword or slamming his father against the forest floor over and over, but nothing that wouldn’t effectively count as treason.

He had stomped out of the closet, watching a couple of nosy servants scamper away. Cold anger stuck in a ball in his throat, part of an aftermath that left hot tears to stream from his eyes. He rubbed at his eyes and stormed up to his mother’s private chambers, hoping to talk to her privately. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he needed to feel his mother’s soothing hands, needed to embrace her in a hug and tell her it’s alright. Tell her that everything will be okay. Tell his mother that he loves her more than the world itself and that he will make things right, even if she can’t quite understand. 

That, however, was not his breaking point. He had discovered his father’s affair with the maid, Laney, not too long ago.

And then he found his father with a scullery maid, Liana.

And that was too much. He had always held his father atop a veritable pedestal as a father and charitable king who understand the troubles of his subjects. He even had a carved dragon that lay on the shelf next to his bed, made out to Merlin for one of his birthdays.

But Merlin could see now that underneath it all, it was just a facade for a man who had no respect for his family or kingdom at all, so willing to disgrace it as he was. Nevermind that Merlin has already accepted the burden of the crown prince; his fury for his mother eclipses even his love for his kingdom.

He’s finally at the part in his life where his magical prowess translates to stealth, and just like all the nights before, he sneaks out using the cover of night. Unlike all the other times, however, Merlin heads east, towards the kingdom of his enemies, his would-be murderers. He feels reckless, edging the fine line of invincible. But more than the veil that shrouds his better judgement and drowns out the scolding voice of Gaius in his head, is the magic that pounds in his head and demands to be heard this time. It chants over and over, “Camelot! Camelot!” In his mind’s eye, Merlin imagines his magic bringing down the stony fortress of rumor. An avalanche with his first victim being the so-called savior of Camelot, King Uther Pendragon. 

Merlin pretends that having a target for his anger, other than his father, makes him feel better.

-

Despite Camelot typically being a 3 day walk, Merlin spots Camelot knights almost within the two days that he’s gone. 

The lingering knights don’t bother to hide their bloody cloaks, and their horses are hitched to thick trees, using up most of the rope and forcing the horses to stay close by. A twist of smoke rises in the air, and the young warlock narrows his eyes at the sight. 

Such hypocrites. They wear the mark of the dragon proudly on their sleeve, and yet swear to slay each and every one of them and their brothers. If not for Merlin’s family, they might have succeeded. Stew is being cooked over a fire, and one of the knights is on a careful watch while the other knight slumbers with his head resting on a pack.

These men are unwelcome, and they know it.

Magic has burrowed under Merlin’s skin for days, itching to be released. He is more than happy to let it flow free now. It requires no spells to know what to do, purely operating on the intent of its master, soaking up the festering hate from days past. It whips past the knight on guard, serving a slap in the face. Like a tornado, it wraps itself around and around the man. The knight is unable to move his limbs, and the magic changes to dart like a snake. Sharply, it threatens to poke an eye out before pulling back at the last second. 

It moves as one body, pulling the leaves and pines from the ground to give it shape. One more feint as the magic snickers and the sound is muffled in the howls of the wind. It pinches the man’s butt and barely gives him time to yowl before it goes in for the kill.

The man’s nape is unprotected. Barely a second passes, and the knight’s eyes bug out, and a choked cough of blood trails out from his mouth. Dirt covers his knees firstly and his face follows. This is Merlin’s first murder. The guilt will have time to sink in later. 

The other knight is obviously either in deep slumber or sick; not well-trained if he isn’t alert to the noises of a dying comrade nearly a feet away. It’s almost like Merlin is doing Camelot a favor by getting rid of the weak link.

But Merlin has more honor than to slit a man’s throat in his sleep. Instead, he deigns the man a messenger, sticking a quickly scribbled note onto an arrowhead and plunging it into the ground. Sparks of gold limn his fingers as Merlin fuels the note with intent. As soon as the man wakes up, he will be compelled to return to Camelot immediately. 

And the note (and the dead body) will make sure he thinks twice before returning where he is not welcome. 

Merlin swipes some stew from the pot for good measure. And mounts one of the leftover horses. 

The horse nudges her mouth into Merlin’s leg and neighs. No matter how many lessons, it’s always been hit-or-miss for the boy in regards to understanding animals. This time it’s a straight bulls-eye; the horse practically screams out the name Dyfodol. He calls out her name and shouts a hyah!, kicking his feet gently into her sides. In a few hours he will reach the border, cresting the hills that, like a lion’s perch, allow for a view of miles of luscious green. 

A spot of brown will catch his attention, a tavern for world-wearied travelers which Merlin will certainly count himself amongst and take advantage of. Back home, Merlin’s alcoholic intake is severely limited because of the uncertain effect it may have on his magic. But today is not a day for following rules. Once inside, the runaway prince grabs a seat and flags down a waitress. 

“And what will you be having, boy?” The barmaid is obviously not impressed, studying Merlin’s gangly limbs not well hidden by his overgrown cloak. The innocence and uncertainty shines brightly in his eyes, and she debates throwing him upstairs and barring him in one of the rooms until the morning comes and the rowdiest of voyagers are asleep in their puddles of piss. Instead, she smirks at the way he stutters while ordering and holds up a hand, “Oh, just leave it to me.” 

The jug handed to Merlin is remarkably watered down, not that he can tell much of a difference. 

Seeing as no one else requires her attention, she plants herself in the seat next to him and weighs her chin upon two interlocked hands. “So, what brings you out here this way? The spring tourney? I can’t imagine you’re going out to try your hand.” 

Merlin isn’t sure how he should act in front of her. She’s examining him with a deft eye, and he settles on a shrug, sipping quietly from his drink. “Just, needed a change of scenery. I guess,” the half-truth has obviously intrigued the woman more. 

“Oh? Well, if you’re going to be around for a couple of days, I’d recommend going to the play happening tomorrow. It’s happening a bit closer to the capital, but all of us are going on account of the rumors about the crown prince.”

That causes Merlin’s ears to perk up of their own accord, and his magic buzzes. “What about him?”

“Well, the play’s supposed to be about the Great Purge, you know, in honor of the King, so someone’s gotta come out and reinforce anti-magic behavior.” The woman scoffs, “As if it’s ever been that black and white. I don’t know where you come from kid, but I’ve been alive long enough to see the gray areas of magic that the King has decided to ignore.” Her dark eyes shine and a glimmer of anger can be seen before she tucks some wayward hair behind her ear and it disappears. “Anyway, you should come with us.”

“Why would I want to see a play about destruction of magic?” Merlin spits out. The very idea is disgusting to him. “Why would you want to see it if you know magic isn’t all that bad?”

She shrugs, standing up and fluffing up her apron as a bell tinkles. A man shouts out his order, and she gives Merlin a knowing look. “Oh, you know. Free food. My day off. If you’re still here by tomorrow morning, I promise it won’t be a complete waste of time.” She flutters a hand behind and she strolls up to the next customer. “Just ask for Samantha Collins.” 

Huh. Merlin finishes off the last of his mead and steals a look outside. The sky is a familiar sunset, and he decides that it would be a good idea to stay for the night. Sternly he tries to convince himself that it’s not because he wants to see that offensive play, but if he happens to be awake before Samantha leaves, that’s just how it is. Flipping a coin over the bar, he’s directed upstairs for the night.

In the morning, he and Dyfodol are off with Samantha and her friends. He’s introduced to her brother, Thomas, a gruff-looking coworker called Dain, and a tittering blonde named Jeann. They’re all at least a couple years older than him, but kindly try to keep him involved in the conversation. It drifts around from Jeann and Samantha gossiping about a boy to Dain inquiring about Merlin’s thoughts on hunting. Finally, he and Thomas settle into a conversation about some books they’ve read. While they were unable to find a book the both of them had read, Thomas seemed happy enough to find a friend who actually knew how to read, and it kept the two of them entertained until they happened upon their destination. 

A banner hung from two wooden poles welcomes them to the ‘Spring Fayre’. Mostly Pendragon red streamers decorate various houses and shops, but the main enclosure is filled with tables of food and drink. There are a couple of rows of seats and an elevated section that Merlin reasons must be for any attending royalty. In his head, he jokes that he should be sitting there instead. 

Samantha leads the group ahead, making sure they get good seats somewhat in the middle of the action. “When’s this thing supposed to start anyway?” Dain asks, peering up at the sky. 

“Yeah, it seems spring’s really desperate to show off,” Thomas remarks, pointing up at some dangerous clouds hovering only a couple miles away. “They’d best get started soon if they want to beat the rain.” 

“Oh hush,” Jeann replied. “There’s no sense rushing the show. They wouldn’t want to start before Prince Arthur arrives.” Again with the mention of the Pendragon prince, Merlin feels agitated in his skin, and struggles to hold down his magic. 

For some reason, a bad feeling crawls over his skin, scratching at him like quill pens. He silently agrees with Dain and Thomas, suddenly wanting this to be over with as swiftly as possible. 

It’s minutes later when there’s a big uproar in the crowd as Prince Arthur finally arrives, ascending the stairs royally. He’s quite young, Merlin thinks, making a note that they must be around the same age. Immediately, the young warlock is drawn to Arthur’s ocean eyes, but he pulls his own away. His magic practically has its teeth bared, and he’s expending too much attention trying to push it down to really take note of the other prince. That’s not what he’s here for, anyway.

Merlin’s not quite sure what he is here for; if he were to think about it too hard, he’d probably realize how out of place and irresponsible he feels so far away from home. 

So he doesn’t focus on it, humming soothingly to himself and willing the play to start.

Start it does, with a man dressed in garish frills to announce that this small town is so happy to receive such a lovely audience and to please be respectful and blah blah blah.

Merlin tunes back in as Jeann hits the side of his arm and excitedly points at the first actor to come out. He’s quite bald, and a metallic circlet hangs about his head haphazardly. He’s covered in various clashing shades of red, and plops himself atop a brown throne. Another actor with a wig of yellow straw on his head comes out and sidles next to the other actor. His face is covered in pink and blue makeup, and he struggles not to trip over his dress.

“This kingdom has become riddled with monsters and horrors!” the young Uther cries, waving and gesturing exaggeratedly. “Why, just last night my knights came across two dastardly dragons and an evil sorceress set on tearing them apart!” His head knocks back against the throne, and he moans pathetically.

“Oh, Uther, we must do something! We cannot let our son be born into this kind of a world.” The “woman”, Merlin makes out him out as the late Queen Ygraine, rubs a flat belly. 

“Quite right!” the other one roars. “I pledge to hunt down each and every monster that threatens our family and kingdom. To create a safe place for our son to rule over.” 

A peculiar sound distracts Merlin and makes him look behind. Prince Arthur is situated in his seat, a distasteful expression sat on his lips. He can’t exactly blame him; so far the acting seems subpar and the props cheap. He’s starting to wonder why he allowed Samantha to take him here. Merlin spares another moment to study the boy, and realizes the sound he heard earlier was Arthur’s sword noisily clanking against his seat. He’s moving it even now, absentmindedly, and his hand is practically white wrenched around the hilt of the sword.

The reason why Merlin was brought here soon becomes clear as Samantha taps his shoulder on his left. Her lips move to form silent words, and he looks over at Thomas. Her brother gives Merlin a smirk and carefully forms his hands. Muttering quietly, eventually Thomas’ eyes shimmer orange, and one of the swords that an actor was hacking about almost shoots from his hands and lodges itself into the boards of the stage. Merlin has to give him credit though, he quickly moves on from his stumble, pretending to slash about an imaginary sword until someone slides a sword unsubtly across the floor for him to pick up. 

But that was no mistake. 

Thomas used magic. 

Of its own accord, Merlin’s head glances around to see if anyone noticed, but all eyes, excepting the group he came with, are on the stage or the prince. Samantha puts a mischievous finger to her lips. 

On stage, the knights, headed by Uther, have finally reached a clearing of dragons, and Uther’s actor shouts for them to charge. The dragons are actually actors in groups of two, one furiously flapping makeshift wings of every color and the other in front snarling and waving streamers of red and orange to simulate fire. One by one, each dragon is felled.

This time, Merlin feels a tinge pushing at his senses as one of the knights trips over his own feet, landing right in front of a horrible dragon. A screech is pulled from the actor’s lips, but he slowly gets to his feet as the dragon very obviously flounders about to delay actually fighting the knight. 

Again, a candle that Thomas pulled from who knows where is flung onto the stage, and suddenly, instead of fake fire there are actual flames.

This time, Merlin goes to counteract the spell, surreptitiously smothering the fire before it can feed off the wood and grow too big. There is a bit of commotion from those in the front row, and the closest actors run away from the flames wide-eyed, but eventually an intermission is called. 

Thomas pulls Merlin aside. “Was that you?” Thomas points at Merlin’s chest, and he falls back into a strong chest. “Did you stop the fire? Do you also have magic?” The questions are rapid-fire but not louder than a murmur, and Merlin shifts himself away from the heavy arms of Dain, who must be making sure that Merlin doesn’t run off. 

Taking a deep breath, Merlin replies, “So what if it was? You can’t just do things like that! Are you crazy? In front of Prince Arthur? He could have you killed!” Merlin is well aware that someone like Thomas doesn’t have the same diplomatic immunity he does. 

At that the atmosphere relaxes. Thomas’ lips curve in a cocky grin. “He could try. I doubt he’d be able to fight off Dain, nevermind my magic. I don’t know how strong your magic is, but Samantha doesn’t have any, so mother spent all of her time teaching me. I’m pretty strong, you know.” 

It’s almost funny, all the crap that seems to be coming out of Thomas’ mouth. Earlier, Merlin thought he was a decent and intelligent bloke, but Merlin can tell that Thomas’ magic is nothing compared to any of his tutors back home. As for Prince Arthur, well, he’s pretty sure that the reputation he’s earned as a tough knight can’t be completely unfounded. 

“What’s going on?” Jeann bright voice comes from behind all of them, and she’s gathered up a plateful of different foods. “The intermission’s going to end soon; come on!” She pulls Dain along by the arm, and he dutifully follows behind. Thomas gives Merlin a sharp look that doesn’t settle well on his face before stalking away. Samantha creeps up and takes his place. 

“I guess you must’ve figured out why we don’t hate magic so much. I’m always telling Thomas he needs to be careful, but it’s just too funny to watch him mess up these ridiculous plays.” She lets out a little chuckle and slings a playful arm over Merlin’s shoulders as an excuse to lean into his ear, “Don’t worry; of course your secret’s safe with us.

“Now, come on! We wouldn’t want to miss the rest of this masterpiece!” She guides him back to their seats, but Merlin notices early on that Prince Arthur has not returned to his seat. He’s almost jealous. 

At some point before the end of the play, it shows the birth of Arthur, a lump of something swaddled in cloth that the actor for Ygraine holds tightly and cooes over. 

The baby is abruptly dropped and bounces off the bed onto the floor. A quick scream and scuffle and suddenly the baby is in Uther’s arms, and another actor, not seen before, takes that moment to make their entrance.

Unlike the other actors, this one gives Merlin a curious vibe. While he’s sure that they must be a boy, no one else would be allowed on stage, long brown hair is gracefully wrapped up on their head, and the dress delicately flows around their body. “Uther Pendragon!” The voice booms from the stage, and startles half the audience. “I have been waiting for this moment!” The cadence of their voice is soothing and rich, and the most convincing tone that Merlin has heard all day. “I have come to take your life!” A hand is raised, and lightning flashes at the same time.

All heads look up, and the storm clouds from earlier have finally reached their destination. The sounds of howling winds and pattering rain starts to reach everyone’s ears, and the electricity in the air builds up. “You, who have killed and maimed so many of my kind. You, who have blamed all of us in order to protect your infant son! You, a tyrant of men!” There a booming behind each of the words, and Merlin feels the suffocating press of magic that his own pushes back. Samantha and Dain are frozen in their seats along with the rest of the audience. Jeann is on her feet, looking around anxiously and lifting her skirts to rush down the stairs and away from whatever’s happening now. 

Thomas and Merlin make eye contact. They have no idea who this woman is, for surely she must be regardless of the rules of theatre, but the intent of harm she has in the audience is as evident as the anger of the rain droplets. “Thomas, try to evacuate everyone. Get them away from her.” Thomas nods, allowing the young warlock to take control, bending to his natural leadership. 

Merlin focuses in on the hidden weavings of magic in the air. The storm is real enough, he realizes, only embellished by this sorceress’s magic. The woman seems to hold everyone nearby enthralled. None of the actors on stage move, not even to scream, and Thomas is forced to push each audience member individually. 

She faces the audience head on, strengthening the shackles off her magic so that it feels that even time has stopped. “All of you that embrace Uther’s reign; all of you that encourage the slaughter of innocents, well, soon you shall ALL understand how it feels!” Suddenly the power of the storm has multiplied, pelting daggers of icy water, designed to welt and dent skin. 

Merlin resists the urge to create a shield above himself, instead hurrying through the thick air that slows him down. He reaches the back of the stage, climbing the small stairs that lead him up into the wings where the dragon wing props and fake crowns are stored. While he can’t see the woman’s face, her hair is risen with static, and the dress she wears whips around in a raging fashion. 

All of a sudden, lightning directly flashes and electrocutes a random man in the audience. His skin blackens, hundreds of volts of energy setting his nerves on fire and killing him instantly. A sharp, wicked laugh erupts from the woman, watching as the man still jolts from the zaps of power that courses through his skin.

Dead. 

Merlin reacts on instinct, sprinting forward to tackle the woman to the ground, hoping to distract her from murdering her next target. 

Before he can, Merlin is tugged to the side by a calloused hand, almost falling to the ground. 

“Are you crazy?” It’s Prince Arthur, sword in hand, and soaking wet hair falling into his eyes. “Get away; I’ll take care of this.” Merlin wonders how many sorcerers Arthur has faced before in his life, how many he was able to take down with a bite of steel. He wonders how many druids he must’ve drowned, how many innocents strung to a pile of wood and set ablaze. Most of all, he wonders if Arthur feels any regret for all the lives he’s taken.

Seeing the fearless blur of man in front of him, swiping the metal in front of him in practiced motions without any hesitation, he’s sure the answer is no. 

He’s torn. A man like Arthur Pendragon he should want dead. And yet his magic roils at the thought of harming him. Like a dog, it whines to see the prince engaged in blows against someone who is, in some sense, his sister. Another magic user who has suffered at the hands of the Pendragon family and only wishes to find justice in this cruel world.

He cannot bring himself to attack her, to get engaged, and turns away, a tight grip clenching his heart. He thinks to himself, if she kills him, so be it.

Isn’t that what he deserves?

No matter what the prince deserves, he is not destined to die that day. Another magical power steps in, one intensely familiar to Merlin. Gaius. 

While the old man isn’t physically strong, Gaius’ magic, like his judgmental eyebrow, is nothing to laugh at. Subtly, Gaius locks the sorceress’s feet to the floor, and Arthur is able to take a sure swing to her stomach. As the blade meets flesh, blood pours out to intermingle with the veritable flood that surrounds them. 

And then the woman vanishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this considered a cliffhanger??


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a continuation of the last chapter

Does it really count if Merlin hasn’t even returned to the castle before he runs again? He wonders this fact as he slips away from the camp Gaius has set up in the woods for the night. Gaius is hardly suited for long travels such as these, and as his head knocks against a warm pillow, he immediately falls asleep sagging into his warm sheets. 

For his part, Merlin isn’t running, this time, out of childish anger and rebellion. He has to make sure that Samantha and co. made it out okay. He has to figure out where that sorceress went and who she was. 

He has to meet Arthur again. 

As Gaius was escorting Merlin home, he had mentioned cryptically that he knew the sorceress was a woman named Nimueh. Beyond that, all Merlin had was his suspicions that Nimueh had a personal, intimate vendetta against the royal family. 

If anything, Merlin had dibs. As the crown prince of basically all of magic, of the dragons and the druids, it felt like it was Merlin’s responsibility to settle the debt the Pendragons were to pay. Not this vigilante who came out of the woodwork, intent on destroying every harmless bystander in her way.

In the light of the moon, Merlin realized he didn’t have the foggiest what to do next. He decided the first, and likely easiest, thing on his to-do list was finding Samantha Collins. She had said that today was her day off, but it wasn’t a risky gamble to bet that she had stayed the night before traveling back to the tavern for her next shift. 

The rain had washed away most of the colorful streamers, and even the leftover food from the festival had been eroded into bits and practically drowned. The streets looked like all the trash had been dumped onto the floor, but looking around, he determined the most likely hotel Samantha would be holed up in was the Golden Egg. Pushing inside the wooden door, the pub was surprisingly lively. Many were wrapped in towels and commiserating over the crazy things they had seen. He could already tell that some were exaggerating the tale to impress their friends, based on the snatches of “lightning goddess who floated down on a cloud” and “epic battle where Prince Arthur pinned her to the ground and had her begging for mercy”. Seated at one of the tables at the far end of the room, Merlin caught sight of the familiar blonde tresses of Jeann’s hair, although matted in knots. 

She was sitting alone. 

Instead of crying, Jeann’s stare bored into the wall. She was still wearing the same clothing from earlier, and the ends of her skirts were dripping onto the floor in the rhythm of a depressed metronome. 

“Jeann. Where’s Samantha and Thomas?”

Her hands rubbed at her face, and red eyes looked into Merlin’s own. “The guards of Camelot. They— they saw what Thomas was trying to do to counteract the storm. And, even though he was helping everyone, he was arrested for magic. They’re taking him to the capital. He’s going to be tried and then killed.” Her voice, sounding like it had been scrubbed raw and bleeding, stated his sentence like an evitability. Like there was no hope for Thomas.

There probably wasn’t. 

“Dain said he was going to go after Tom. See if he couldn’t, I don’t know, break him out?” At that her voice cracked, and she choked down a hiccup. “Samantha’s going home to tell their mom.” Jeann squeezed her eyes tight, and tears beaded at the corners of her eyes. “They’re going to kill him. All because he was trying to help and stop this damn town from being flooded,” her voice gains a sharp bite that Merlin can tell is uncharacteristic when she says, “should’ve let everyone drown.” 

There’s nothing Merlin can do. He can’t go up against the whole of the army of Camelot trying to save Thomas. He can’t stick his nose into another country’s dealings, not as a foreign prince. He can’t save Thomas. A man that he had known for less than twenty-four hours, who had been careless but not cruel. A man who had tried to help everyone from Nimueh’s wrath and now was going to die for it. 

Merlin imagined Thomas’ body going up in flames, imagined watching as a mere face in the crowd and not being able to do anything. There would be screaming until his throat was scorched, skin lit like a candle’s wick. Merlin thought he might throw up. 

The warlock knew that he should go to sleep. He needed to clear his mind, otherwise he’d be running on fumes for the next day and practically useless. But at this point, Thomas was living on borrowed time. There was only one person who would be able to save Thomas from his fate, and maybe not even then, but Merlin had to try.

Merlin forces himself to think, rubbing his temples. Where would Arthur be right now? The idea of scrying to find Arthur’s location is tempting, but scrying is usually a taxing and unreliable tactic. He rationalizes that Arthur must be settled down for the night. If he found Arthur’s camp which would, of course, be on the way to the castle, he could maybe free Thomas before the dawn. 

Throwing the doors of the tavern open, Merlin trudges through the sludge on the road, allowing his magic to guide him like a firefly in the woods. In his mind’s eye he can almost see the path Arthur had taken, the hoofprints of the horses leading the way. Following the breadcrumbs, eventually he comes across a thick tree, it’s wide base wrapped in bright orange cloth. The orange fabric waves in the fragile wind like a flag, alerting Merlin that he must be close. It would be a sign that Thomas had left behind for someone to find, torn from the jacket he had been wearing earlier.

If Merlin had looked closely, he would’ve seen the dried specks of blood on the fabric. As it was, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Hearing the rushing rapids of a nearby river, Merlin crouched down and tiptoed towards the water. It was likely that the knights had used the stream as a drinking source, or even a place to refresh before bed. 

Adrenaline masking all fear, Merlin crawls closer to the sound in his ears, until another noise joins it. Whimpering. 

Eventually, Merlin has the camp in sight. One guard, with a ragged ginger beard is sat on watch, kneeling on a log and facing to the north. His sword is sheathed for now, but Merlin is under no illusions that the man wouldn’t be able to slice his throat in seconds if he were so inclined. 

Merlin times his further footsteps to the wind rustling the knight’s cloak, edging closer to the camp. Thomas is directly in front of the knight, arms tied tightly behind his back in rough, punishing rope. There is a slice of crimson that drips down into Thomas’ eyebrow, and a slick sheen of sweat accentuated by heavy breathing. Whether he is faking sleep or is actually passed out is anyone’s guess, but Merlin tells himself it is the latter, just to be on the safe side.

The camp fire still has whispers of smoke that float into the stars above, and the other knights are circled around it, sleeping head-to-toe. A stack of dishes belie a stew from earlier, and it seems to Merlin that one of the men is not actually a knight, but a servant brought along for that exact purpose. 

The clouds in the sky drift so that the moon’s glow shines upon flaxen hair. It ruffles lightly against the ground as the body attached shifts, turning so that if his eyes were open, they would stare straight at Merlin. Holding his breath, Merlin considers his options. 

He could try to subdue the knight on-guard, hoping that the resulting scuffle will be quiet and quick, and try to make off with Thomas before anyone wakes. Or he could wake Arthur, somehow without alerting everyone, and maybe convince him to let Thomas go, that perhaps whatever he thought he saw was just a trick of the light. 

Darkly, he considers the option of smothering each and every one of them in their sleep. Even if he were to do so, the weight of his soul would still be lighter than the globs of blood and residue that must weigh on their own. The Old Religion would reject their dead bodies from sinking into the dirt, like decomposing rot, instead watching as their flesh crumpled off their bones to be feasted on by vultures. 

How could it ever forgive the shameless wrongs done against it?

Merlin shakes his head, spurning the darkness that seems to influence his thoughts recently. It does him no good to wish death and hate on his enemies, not if it means he would be lost to resentment. Fight fire with fire and the world goes up in flames. 

The fire in front of him sputters, sparking on some last breath of air. Merlin ducks behind a tree and the knight on guard spares a glance for his heat source. The man looks around (thankfully, Merlin disappears well into the dark) before standing. He marches toward Thomas with purpose, crouching down and ensuring that his capture is still out cold before heading off into the trees. Recognizing that the knight is gone off to collect firewood, Merlin realizes this is his chance. There will be no other. 

He scrambles forward, and his eyes shine golden to loosen the ropes. Thomas is slightly roused by the feeling, and Merlin makes sure to cover his mouth with his hand. Face illuminated by the light in his eyes, Merlin mouths at Thomas, helping to free his arms and raise him to his feet. “Run,” he whispers. Points to the west. “That way. Go.” He shoves Thomas, who still has one foot in the unconscious, and looks in the direction that the other knight is headed. 

He can’t make out any other figures, so after waiting another moment, he follows the path that Thomas took. His magic makes sure to hide the most obvious signs of their departure, and he purposely muffles the vibrations in the air. A stillness, like death, overtakes site, and Merlin shudders at the unnatural lack of life. Only the slow rise of chests on the ground reassure him that time still flows. He has not gone too far.

It’s mere minutes before Merlin hears the shout. A bellow filled with anger and indignance. He presses on, knowing that Thomas cannot be too far ahead. If Merlin is caught, there is no doubt that Thomas will be too. And it will be all over. 

Will the Pendragons even recognize Merlin’s authority? Will they spare him death to spare a war? It’s not a theory Merlin is eager to test out. 

His ragged breaths are soon accompanied by those of his pursuers, who shout and taunt him. Even Arthur’s voice seems to be included in the mix, and a quick look behind him shows that all of them are fully awake. There is a dangerous glint in Arthur’s eye that forces Merlin to look ahead. Miles and miles of forest await him, but he doesn’t know the woods like these knights do. This is their home, one they must hunt in often, one they would’ve played hide-in-seek in during their youth. Even if Merlin were to find some sort of cave for the night, he would be found within the hour. He’s not faster than them, not better at sword-fighting. In their eyes he must be prey equivalent to a rabbit. 

His stomach lurches, either from exertion or the thought of Arthur eating his meat, roasted and straight off the bone. Could be both.

“We mean you no harm!” A lie as transparent as a ghost hangs in the air. 

“Well, I mean you harm!” A deep grunt replies. It’s not from Merlin.

The clang of steel against its brother answers Merlin’s suspicions. Dain. It must be because Jeann said he was following Thomas in hopes of bringing him back. The knights are distracted either way, and Merlin takes the opportunity to gain ground. He makes it only so far before he crashes into another human being. 

“Why have you stopped?” Merlin fights his self-preserving instincts as he hangs back to see what the matter is. “Dain’s distracting them. He’s trying to help you; don’t waste it!” 

“You don’t get it,” Thomas is practically hyperventilating as he wipes off moisture that beads on his forehead. Water drips off his hair and splatters on the ground, creating a mud puddle. “Dain can’t fight against knights of Camelot. They’ll kill him. He’ll die. For me! I can’t— it wouldn’t be right. I have to go back and help him. You should leave. You’ve done enough tonight, and I won’t ever be able to repay you. But this isn’t your fault. Go.”

It sounds like the most ridiculous bullcrap Merlin has ever heard. The fight of men and magic has always been his business. He has always known that it is his responsibility to keep magic-users safe. Magic deserves to flow freely. There needs to be a balance. Without magic, the planet would wither. 

But Merlin is reaching his limit. His magic is exhausted, having faced Nimueh earlier in the day, and his physical body is at risk of collapsing as well. He cannot go back and help Dain. He cannot force Thomas to keep running. He cannot save everyone. 

If he doesn’t save himself, no one will come out of this encounter alone.

It’s the bitter reality. Not an ending that any adult would read to him in bedtime stories. Not a story that Merlin would make up with Will and Freya, prancing about handmade dolls and making up spells to suit their creative purposes.

It’s the truth of the world that Merlin lives in. One day, he swears, tripping over a root in the dawn of morning and diamond tears dripping from his eyes, he will change that.


	5. Five

The chief of the druids, Iseldir, is dying. He is sick, and begs for no one to heal him. The spirit of the earth is calling out his name, waiting for him to tie up loose ends before ferrying him to Avalon with every other great leader of men. It is no one’s duty to delay the inevitable. There is only one thing left he wishes to see done. 

He calls to Merlin telepathically. Emrys, he mutters, lying pitifully on his bed, surrounded by concerned family. Emrys. There is something you must hear.

The druids have attributed Merlin the name Emrys, and he does not know what it means. He has never understood the reverence with which they gaze at him, and no one has ever bothered to explain it to him. His father waves it off, telling him that it’s not a matter to concern himself with. He can tell not even his mother knows the significance of it.

At the foot of Iseldir’s bed lies a young druid boy with coal dark hair who digs his fingers into the bedsheets. His name is Mordred. His eyes follow Merlin as he enters, followed by the King and Queen, and they are bloodshot and angry. Eventually he stomps to his feet, and curls his fingers so that they resemble claws. 

“Emrys!” Mordred shouts out, and his muscles tense in anticipation. His mouth open, jaw practically unhinged, he tilts his head to the sky, but no sound comes out at first. Then there is sobbing, a crescendo of pain that comes from his mouth, and causes the boy to lose all his strength and wilt to the ground.

Balinor gives Iseldir a sharp look. “What is this about, Iseldir? Not even the dying are given exceptions to my rules, you know.”

Iseldir does not expend the energy to respond to Balinor’s words. He twists to face Merlin and gestures to Mordred. “I am teaching him what he needs to know in order to take my place. He is not yet ready, and he struggles, but in time, I hope the two of you will be able to continually coexist.”

A wistful look crosses Iseldir’s face, and at his beckoning, Mordred is placed in his lap. He strokes the boy’s hair gently, and Mordred curves into the touch like a child would for his father. “The dragons always make more of what there is to be seen. They are known to be wrong, and I hope that in this, they will be wrong again.

“But that is not what I need to say to you. Mordred and Kilgharrah will be able to explain everything else.”

Balinor pushes his son aside, and kneels so that he is face-to-face with Iseldir. “You better not be telling him what I think you are. He is not yet ready. You have seen what a volatile child he has turned out to be!” At this, he thrusts out a pointed arm. “Just because you are dying does not give you the right to speed up the natural order of things. You must let this go, Iseldir!” Spittle practically flies from the King’s lips, but Iseldir calmly wipes away his rage. 

“If you never tell him, when he eventually finds out, he will never forgive you. Now move aside, Balinor.” His wandering, pale eyes drift over to Hunith. “He never told you either, did he? But he has no right. The time of Albion soon approaches; we must all play our part.” These words, while Merlin has no idea what they mean, have an effect on his mother. Hunith grabs her husband’s arm sternly, perhaps a bit tighter than necessary, and pulls him away. 

The atmosphere between the two is awkward, full of tension and words unsaid, and Balinor knows better than to fill the silence with petty arguments. 

“Finally.” Iseldir gives Merlin a feeble smile, “Don’t you know that if someone contacts you through the mind, they usually mean it to be a secret? Oh, well, nevermind that.” The druid chief pats the bed next to him, careful not to jostle Mordred too much. 

“What’s going on?” Merlin asks, refusing the offer and instead settling down on a plush tan chair. “Did do something wrong?”

“Oh, child. It’s not what you’ve done. It’s who you are. Who you’re going to be. Of course, I won’t spoil too much, but, I do feel some duty to warn you. There are many unexpected challenges ahead. Many unexpected friends and cloaked foes. More than one would encounter in the usual lifetime, that’s for sure.” A soft chortle escapes Iseldir’s lips. “A life like yours would make it hard to retain our pacifistic lifestyle. Only a fool uses peace as a shield from chains.”

“I don’t understand,” Merlin interrupts impatiently. He knows that as a prince of magic there are likely many enemies who wish him harm, not least being the Pendragon family. He’s heard this all before; there must be something more if his father fought so hard to silence a dying man. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you are a child of pure magic, Merlin. It is your destiny to bring magic back to the realm.”

The young warlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. “We are all people of magic, Iseldir.” 

“No, no,” Iseldir sighs. “Of course, we are all practitioners of magic. But none of us are made from magic, like you, Merlin. It forms your bones, courses through your blood. It is the very matter that makes you Merlin. It can never be taken away from you. Don’t forget that. It may turn out to be very important,” the man winks, which is a strange sight for such a usually solemn man. It feels like death has made a caricature of who Merlin remembered the druid chieftain to be. Or perhaps it has released him of the strenuous weights he had to hold on his shoulders, allowing for a more carefree self in his last moments. Whichever it is, Iseldir continues on, derailing Merlin’s thoughts.

“I just want you to remember that when everything seems lost. When all the magic seems to have dried up, I need you to remember us. All of us who used magic as seamlessly as the river flows through the ground. All of the dragons. Albion is the truth, Merlin. And the truth can only be hidden from sight for so long.”

Merlin can tell the exact moment that the last thread holding Iseldir to a mortal life snaps. Mordred seizes sharply, as if given an extra burst of life, and clambers off the bed. 

“He’s dead.” Mordred states dumbly.

“Yes, he is.”

There is a very long ceremony that proceeds afterwards. A proper funeral is carried out, and it feels to Merlin that every single magic user in the kingdom is in attendance. And then virtually immediately afterwards Mordred is named chieftain of the druids, to be advised by other, wiser druids until he is ready to stand on his own two feet. 

Merlin is reminded of a verse from the other religion’s tomes that he has perused in his visits to Finne. There was a specific exchange of knowledge (as well as a swapping of spit) where Merlin taught Finne the spell to translate written language and in return Finne read to him, “From the mouths of little children and infants, you have built a fortress against your opponents to silence the enemy and the avenger.” It sounds silly to him, even now. He doesn’t need or want any children to fight battles for him. 

In some respects, Merlin feels like he is still a child. He still fails at specific spells that Gaius teaches him which makes it hard for him to accept the fact that he is apparently magic incarnate. It wasn’t too long ago that he was unable to save Thomas from his execution and somehow made it worse by getting Dain thrown into the whole bloody mess at the end. He gets giddy like a kid when he realizes he’s going to go down and visit Finne and Imogen and Lear.

Merlin had thought that growing up would feel different, somehow. Like there would be some monumental change that occurred within him, or some day when he woke up and felt like the man he was supposed to be. Surely, if he was an adult already, he would stop failing. Even on birthdays, like the day he was pronounced Crown Prince, don’t feel any different from the two days before or two days after. 

Merlin was just him, and he didn’t know how he was supposed to be any other version than that. How is he supposed to face whatever magical destiny is in store for him the way he is? He feels insufficient. Somewhere along the line, someone must’ve messed it up. Either the dragons somehow ran out of their infinite patience and decided to thrust the destiny onto some random child, or maybe the druids got him confused with some only lanky, brunet boy. Maybe Merlin does show up somewhere in the prophecy, just not as the main character.

There has to be some high authority that would know. Someone that he could ask to set the record straight. Merlin already has to become King of his home one day, he can’t afford to get distracted from the well-being of his people like this prophecy surely foretells. And he wouldn’t want to mess it all up by assuming to be someone he’s not. 

He needs to be sure. 

He needs it to be wrong. 

Somewhere, many forests and mountains and hills away, is the Isle of the Blessed. “The center of magic,” Gaius had taught, “once inhabited by great Priestesses of the Old Religion. Powerful women lived there who dedicated their life to the triple Goddess, who represents the Mother, Maiden, and Crone, a woman in all forms, and is all-seeing and all-knowing.” Surely, these servants of an all-knowing Goddess would know the truth. “During the Great Purge, Uther hunted down many of the Priestesses, and any left were forced to abandon the island, gone off to asylum who knows where. I would be surprised if there were any who returned to the isle, after all this time. Goddess only knows what survived the bloodshed.” Gaius had spoken as if he had overseen it personally, the horrors haunting his speech. He had ended the lesson shortly after that, and Merlin had been vaguely intrigued with the idea at the time. Despite the importance of the Triple, sometimes called White, Goddess to the Old Religion, he had never met anyone with any ties to the Goddess. 

It was Merlin’s quest to find someone who was blessed to tell him that he was not. 

Merlin marvels for the last time how easy it is for him to slip out of the castle walls, and reasons to himself that if he is running away he must still be a child and an unworthy one at that, so therefore him finding out that everything is simply a misunderstanding is actually the responsible thing to do. 

The rucksack on his shoulders jutters with every step that Merlin takes, and the heavy weight makes the warlock feel as though he is sinking into the earth. 

-

The Isle is much smaller than Merlin expected it to be, shrouded in a fog with only bits and pieces of stone slipping through the blinds. Of course, it is surrounded by water on all sides, but conveniently enough, there is a rickety boat with the oars tightly tucked inside it. Merlin sits down on the rough wooden seat, wincing at the feeling of a sharp splinters. He takes the oars and paddles slowly, taking the time to watch the water ripple in the blue lake. There isn’t much else to make out until he has barely breached the Isle. Stepping out of the boat, sand quickly gives way to unexpectedly lush grass. 

The boat drifts away from the shore despite the calm waters. By the time Merlin notices, taking a quick glance behind him, the barge is already halfway gone. Merlin gets the impression that this is the Isle asking him to stay a while. 

He hopes that this isn’t a trap. 

Approaching inland, the previous splendor of the Isle is obvious. There are ruins of stone that stick up high into the sky, as magnificent as his own castle back home. The palace is practically pulsing with memories, trying to shove their way into his mind and take him over for a while. There is a dust of nostalgia just waiting to be inhaled into the lungs. He can imagine the swishing of the Priestesses’ dresses along the stone floor, carrying tomes of magic in stacks. He climbs up into a partially conserved stairway and is surprised to see a portrait of a young girl leaned against a wall. 

Her face seems relatively young, with smooth features, but the artist has managed to portray a sharp manner about her. Long, carefully styled blonde hair falls in rivulets that frame her face, and her eyes sink into her face a bit. There is a jut of her jaw that betrays an arrogance about the young woman, but the most striking thing is the fire that lights up her eyes. It is clear that in this picture she is not doing magic from the lack of an obvious glow, but even still the strength of her ferocity claws into Merlin’s heart.

Surely even this woman would be a better candidate for bringing magic back to the realm than he is. It is obvious that she knows who she is and the goals she will accomplish, for if a Priestess with such a potent determination could not accomplish her goals, no one else would have a chance. Merlin finds it hard to believe that her spark could be so easily put out by Uther Pendragon’s pinched fingers. 

A breath of wind rumples Merlin’s hair and carries the curious sound of a shout with it. Abandoning the portrait, Merlin quickly makes his way back outside, looking left and right to see what caused the sound.

Looking up, he spots gnarled wyverns only minutes away from the island.

The shout rings through the air once more, this time much louder. The urgency in the voice makes Merlin’s blood shiver, and finally he spots the body from which it came from. 

It’s a slight woman, he can tell immediately, with long black hair hanging behind her green cloak in a tight braid. She’s quite pale although it could be from the shock. Merlin swiftly takes stock of the situation before calling out to her. There’s a wyvern nearly five metres from here, who must’ve lead the rest of his buddies to the Isle. There are sharp daggers that penetrate out from the bones of his wings and his tail, and an ugly goatee that hangs from his neck, scraping the grass. 

“Don’t move!” 

The wyvern flicks its attention over to Merlin before snarling back at the woman, who disregards Merlin’s advice and takes a few stumbles backward, just barely on her feet. “Help me!”

Merlin can read the intent in the wyvern’s eyes startling clearly. The beast isn’t nearly as intelligent as his cousins, but Merlin has spent enough time messing around with the most untamed fire-breathers at the Dragon’s Vale. He takes a deep breath, letting the calm rush down through his fingers and his toes. The energy feels as if it pushes out from his limbs like lasers, and so he closes his eyes as he encants. 

“Ó d’fhág, t-oileán an seo agus dúinn anseo i síocháin, ná bí imithe!”

Bidden, the words spill from his mouth, pouring over his chin and dripping like dark blood. The wyverns struggle to ignore his power, to resist the golden eyes that cast iron chains on their will. 

“Ardu! Teitheadh!” 

The woman marvels as the wyverns finally give in, rising up from the ground and snarling at the escaped prey. For now, the two are safe, and the woman immediately turns to face the young prince.

“You saved us! How did you do that?” Automatically the girl’s eyes flicker and she lowers her voice to a muted whisper, “Did you use magic?”

Something about the whole scene seems comic to Merlin. An isle where magic was at its height just over two decades ago, where sorcerers practiced and communicated with and taught spells without worry. And now one cannot even speak the word without fear embedded inside them. Perhaps more than comical, it is intensely tragic. To see the pillars of magic’s previous power reduced to rubble.

“I’m guessing, then, that you are not a Priestess. Yes, it was magic, although not the type that can be taught.” A thought occurs to Merlin, “If you are not a Priestess, then what are you doing here?” 

Haughtily, as if her gratitude is forgotten, the woman’s green eyes look Merlin up and down before answering, “I could ask you the same question. How do I know that I can trust you?” It’s easy enough to figure out: She uses braggadocio to cover up her fear, and if Merlin’s to get any answers out of her, he has to bring himself down to her level.

“I’m Merlin. I’m here to see if there are any Priestesses left. I need to ask them something.” The woman’s gaze doesn’t change, and Merlin is relieved to see that she does not recognize him. He wasn’t so sure she would, considering she was likely from Camelot. However, her fine silks and embroidery woven into her velvet cloak made Merlin suspect she was a lady of the court, and she would be most likely to recognize another member of royalty out of anyone else from a foreign kingdom. He could tell the thought hadn’t even occurred to her based on the way she analyzed his clothing.

What could he say, Merlin had never been one to feel comfortable in finery. In another life, he probably was a simple farming boy. Maybe that’s what he was supposed to be all along, he mused. That’s why he was here, to find out for sure.

“Your turn,” Merlin egged her on.

“I am Morgana LeFay. I am here because,” her voice hardens, and she barely chokes out, “I think I have magic. I need to know.” 

This statement is a little confusing for Merlin. For him and his, they have always known whether or not they have magic. It’s been as simple as reciting a spell perched on the tip of the tongue, or even better, using magic instinctively in dangerous situations. Or, in Merlin’s case, levitating objects since he was in the cradle. 

There would be no reason for someone to come to the Isle of the Blessed to find out. If Morgana was here, it was because she knew that she had magic. She just wasn’t ready to confront it yet. If Morgana was from Camelot like he suspected, Merlin could understand why that would be the case. 

“What did you think you’d find here? Someone to tell you what you already know? Someone to take away your power, so you can live comfortably in the centre of magic’s vacuum? You must know that there’s no one here.” 

Morgana scoffs. “I could say the same to you. We both came here hoping for someone to be here, and yet the only one I can see is you.”

The two magic-users find themselves at a standstill, clenched fists holding tightly to dashed hopes. Morgana looks away, squeezing her eyes shut. There is a remarkable spirit shared between the two soul-searchers to feel alone, even when they are not. 

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not giving up now. It’s only been, what? Two hours since I’ve arrived? Maybe the surviving priestesses turned nocturnal or something, I don’t know.” Merlin reaches a hand out, “Do you want to wait with me?”

Morgana takes his hand. 

-

“I came here because I heard King Uther talk about a Priestess called Nimueh. He was in fits, commanding troops all over the place to see if maybe he could happen upon her by luck, I guess.” 

Morgana confesses this the next morning, after her and Merlin have scavenged the ruins for pallets to sleep on. Merlin even showed off a trick within the grasses, causing some berries to sprout up from the ground. The duo had not spoken much that first night, struggling to breach an unspoken divide that hung between them. Merlin couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew her, but from where he couldn’t say. 

“I thought that, considering he hadn’t sent anyone here, perhaps it would be the perfect sanctuary for Priestesses. I wondered if maybe some new women hadn’t thought to take up the mantle. To try again.” 

For a while neither says anything. Merlin and Morgana watch on their backs as they first rays of sunlight shine through stone cracks, and eventually someone brings up the idea of further exploration. Maybe there’s a test, they wonder. All they have to do is pass a test and then they’ll get what they came here for. 

Wandering the castle turns out to be quite an interesting task. At one point, Merlin eventually leads them down to an underground area that holds a pool full of aquatic animals that neither of them recognize. There’s a library mostly burnt to the ground, but both spend multiple hours scavenging for any lost information. There’s an obvious courtyard at the back of the castle with a stone bed that piques their curiosity on the types of rituals performed for the Triple Goddess. 

But besides a few scattered portraits and knicknacks left behind, there’s no sign of other human life.

-

Eventually, Merlin knows he shouldn’t hide himself any longer. The two magic-users have spent countless hours exploring and bonding, but while Morgana has confessed to her purpose in visiting the island, Merlin feels like a liar. He hasn’t said anything false to her, mostly because she hasn’t asked, but he can’t feel free with this lie of omission hovering over him. He wants them to be friends, truly. 

All he’s heard this scared sorceress describe is her utter loneliness back at home. With a King that would have her executed in seconds, and a battalion of knights stationed to hunt down the very thing that she is, there is nowhere and with no one that Morgana can truly be herself. 

Merlin hopes that maybe she can learn to be comfortable with him. 

“I came to the Isle of the Blessed because, like you, I’m running from something,” Merlin admits, plumes of gray smoke rising between the duo from the fire they built. He looks at her through the smoke, wondering if really he’s looking at a reflection of himself. A scared, dark-haired child who doesn’t want to be who they really are. Someone looking for a way out.

“Back home, I’m supposed to be this hero, you see?” Merlin starts explaining, and is comforted by the fact that Morgana seems content to listen, curious even. “Just like you, I’m relevant in my kingdom’s royal court, but recently I’ve discovered that even more than just being born into responsibility to help run a kingdom, I’m supposed to unite all kingdoms, or something silly like that. I’m not really sure. Probably because none of it actually makes sense in the first place, and I’m convinced that they just thrust this ridiculous and impossible duty on the first gullible kid they saw. But I’m here to figure out if any of what they said is true. I need to know if I actually am supposed to be some sort of chosen one, or if I’m just who I’ve always been: Merlin.” Saying that last bit actually does damper Merlin’s spirit. It’s not that he wants to have these huge expectations lumped onto him or anything, but there’s something exciting and even a bit humbling about being told that you’re special. If he wasn’t the Crown Prince Merlin, he might have been even elated to have been given a purpose in life beyond just living. 

But he was only one person. And maybe this prophecy was merely a good omen for his reign, of the things that he would do. But it was up to him to decide what he wanted for his kingdom. No druids or dragons were allowed to dictate his life for him. He had enough of that already.

“I lied too,” Morgana interrupts his thoughts, and holds out a hand over the fire. With some practice she raises the height of the fire, and in the next blink turns it into a smoldering green. “I’ve had enough time to practice and accept who I am, even if no one else I knew would. I knew I wasn’t crazy or an evil criminal, no matter what Uther said. But I just wanted to find someone like me.” She laughs a little bit at that. “I guess I did, with you, but that’s not really what I mean.

“I’m a seer. I actually foresaw our meeting, and even the stupid goatee of that wyvern. But, I’m looking for this woman I keep seeing in my dreams. Ever since her face started popping up in my visions, somehow she’s managed to stem my nightmares. I’m convinced she’s helping me from afar. I don’t know much about her except how she looks-- not even her name!-- but I just feel like I need to know her.

“Somehow, she feels like coming home.”

“So you’re not looking for Nimueh, then?”

Morgana shrugs, the planes of her face illuminated by the fire, highlighting the sheer exhaustion in her face. “I mean, maybe. That could be her name. I just don’t know.” Her shoulders slump, and Merlin finally decides to breach that invisible border between them. He slides over so that their shoulders bump, and she rests her head on his shoulder. 

“Thank you, Merlin.” 

“Don’t mention it.”

-

“So how did you learn magic, then? If no one was there to teach you?”

A smirk alights Morgana’s face. “King Uther is an old fool. He keeps magic books and relics locked away, and he gives his son the key. It’s like he’s asking for a challenge. It’s one of my best forms of entertainment, seeing how many times and in how many ways I can trick Prince Arthur into leaving me the keys.”

Merlin gives her a strange look. “And they have never found out what you’re doing?”

The smirk grows bigger, and Merlin is almost afraid of the pretty woman’s terrifying demeanor. There is a power she knows that she wields, and Merlin is glad to know that he is not on the wrong side of that. “Let’s just say that King Uther holds a soft spot for me, and everyone knows it.” 

-

On the third morning, which Merlin and Morgana have mutually decided to be their last day, Morgana stumbles across something familiar. Her gasp is dramatic, and she stumbles over herself to reach it. 

“This woman— it’s her! The woman from my dreams!” Morgana clutches the portrait to her chest, but Merlin catches glimpses of the fiery spirit he saw on the first day that caught his attention. 

Perhaps it’s a little too far to describe the woman as “coming home,” however.

“I was right, she is a Priestess. Or, at least, she was. But she must be alive! I only ever see glimpses of the future, not the past. Oh Merlin, this is fantastic!” From the back of the portrait, pasted on the frame, Merlin can see a note. He peers at it, translating the writing.

“I think we’ve also figured out her name. Look: Morgause Gorlois.” Morgana turns over to look at the inscription, and her face pales. “What is it?”

“Gorlois,” she breathes. “I know that name.”

“You do?”

Before she can respond, someone new enters their conversation. “Oh, yes, all these incredibly huge things that you aren’t supposed to find out about yet which will all come to light soon enough, if the prophecy is to be believed. Youth nowadays truly are impatient. After all, you spend days in my home and can’t even be bothered to tell a lonely old sorceress ‘hello’.” 

In front of them is the sign of life they’ve spent days looking for. It’s a Priestess swathed in a torn and soggy red dress, far from the glamorous actor Merlin remembers. But he could never forget the strength of pure resentment in those blue eyes that stare at him now. The woman from the play.

This must be Nimueh. 

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asks, stunned to see her again.

She chuckles, beautiful sapphire eyes lighting up with a sense of pure joy that makes the hair on his arm prickle. “Weren’t you listening? This is my home. The one place Uther wouldn’t dare return to if he had a choice,” her tone turns bitter as she caresses a stone pillar next to her, “not that I would ever let that coward turn me from my own home.

“I’ve been watching you two. I know what you both want and yet I must admit I have never seen two souls so determined and righteous and yet, so misguided. Perhaps I am just old, but I could never let myself be ruled by such fear as you. Two lost little lambs looking for someone to guide them, someone to please tell them what to do so that they don’t have to decide for themselves. Really, I expected more from you, Emrys.”

“Do you have anything interesting to say,” Morgana interrupts. “Or are you just going to lecture us until you feel better about your defeat against Arthur?”

Nimueh glowers at Morgana before regaining her composure, drawing a hand up to her chest. “Yes, actually. I have something to ask of the both of you. Something to give you both the direction you crave, to sate the outrage you feel. The future that you have been foretold to bring about is waiting for all, to bring back balance to the world. And yet, we are too valuable to each other to become enemies. You should join me.”

“Join you?” Morgana scoffs, “You, who is so easily bested by the clumsy oaf that is Arthur? Who is said to bring about pain and suffering to the innocent, who sees no difference between revenge and justice. How could I ever join powers with you? Right, Merlin?”

Of course the answer is easy for Merlin. To join a woman who held no hesitation in attacking an innocent crowd who gathered to celebrate who be unthinkable to Merlin. But, the casual acknowledgment from even Nimueh that he is meant to remake the world is enough to make his head spin. The answer he had been hoping to avoid, dreading to see, presented right in front of him.

Merlin is no coward. 

“How could I ever join such a selfish and cruel witch like you?” he spits out at her, watching her closely.

“Ah, it is a shame. So much as changed since my time and yet, the young will always be ignorant. We could have been so much more.” Nimueh laments, her features contorted in the most genuine emotion that Merlin has seen from her yet. “Are you sure you will not reconsider?”

“You should never have attacked those people.” Merlin shares a look with Morgana, his eyes searching hers and hoping that she will trust him. She nods back. “You can no longer be allowed to go without penance.” 

Merlin grabs Morgana’s hand, hoping that in some way their magics will combine to create a wave more powerful than he fears this sorceress to be. Closing his eyes tight, he starts to focus all of his power, unaware of the awe on Morgana’s face and storm clouds start to blow in. Thunder to match all of his emotions from the past few days, anger and confusion and even shame, fills his ear, and bright shocks of light penetrate the dark behind his eyelids. Muttering until his words get louder and louder, Merlin drowns out the panicked sounds of Nimueh’s counterattack. He will not allow her to get a shot in; he will not give her another chance. 

His eyes flash open with a furious blaze and he howls into the sky, “Leictreachas!” and lightning focuses until a bright splinter of gold strikes Nimueh. Morgana squeezes Merlin’s hand tightly as the form of Nimueh shutters under the immense voltage before finally disintegrating into the wind, dress and all.

Rainwater plasters Merlin’s fringe to his face, and he stares in disbelief at the sight before him. He has never tried to control something so powerful and natural and the weather and sky before. The size of his power would almost be frightening to him if it didn’t feel so natural and perfect under his hand. 

“You did that?” Morgana asks softly. “You did that, and yet you still doubt the validity of your destiny?” Her voice rises steadily.

“Are you afraid?”

“Of you? How could I be?” she laughs, and Merlin joins in for a little bit.

-

“I guess it’s time to go home,” Merlin ventures, staring at the mysterious boat that floats in front of the pair. 

“I don’t know if I can,” Morgana’s voice cracks. “It’s just that I’ve never felt so at home as I have here, freely practicing magic with you, Merlin. How can I face Uther and Arthur or even Gwen, knowing that everyday I will have to hide who I am from them, lie to them or risk dying instead? How can I go back after knowing what life could be instead?”

It is a heavy question, and Merlin dreads the idea of sending Morgana into a life that is not truly living. And yet . . . “I promise you that one day, we will no longer have to hide. Those that are in power now will not hold those titles forever. And, you heard what Nimueh believed. People like us have been foretold to bring about a better world: Albion. Morgana, Camelot needs you. Just as my home needs me.” In a moment of platonic intimacy, Merlin brings their foreheads together to truly look deep into her eyes, “One day, magic will roam the land unfiltered once more. But it will not happen by itself.”

Tears waver in Morgana’s eyes as she tries to accept the reality waiting for her back home. “You’re right,” she declares, hardening her face as she steps onto the boat waiting to bring them to the other shore. “This is not the time to be afraid. It is the time to act. Thank you, Merlin. I hope that one day we will be able to meet again.”

Merlin joins her in the boat, “That time might be sooner than you think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i take some liberties with characters like Iseldir because he lives in a different sort of reality where he has sanctuary within Merlin's kingdom so he's not always in fear, and i feel like that would change a lot of characters demeanors but hopefully it's not too disturbing or annoying to read. lmfao


	6. Plus One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finished this part last night so if it's shit,,, sorry lol just wanted a satisfactory wrap up.

The discovery of Morgana Pendragon’s magic (as well as her relation to the King of Camelot) is a stunning one. She is illegitimate and could never inherit the throne. But she is also a beloved member of the royal court, and when she performs magic in front of the entire kingdom to save a young child from being burned alive, the King commands all of his warriors to lay down their weapons.

He will not let them place a hand on her. 

For his part, Merlin appreciates the superficial, hypocritical mindset that Uther Pendragon is stuck in. He cannot let go of the past. He cannot admit his own faults and make changes to his own revolting character. Like a man carved from stone, Uther Pendragon won’t ever change.

But he makes the appropriate allowances. Morgana Pendragon is given immunity and the ability to help reverse the ban on magic and put in place more just laws instead. She dresses herself up in dark silks and cloaks when she is appointed the position of Court Sorcerer, as a reminder to all of council and Camelot that the slaughter of innocents (like Thomas) should always be mourned, not forgotten.

And the royal family reaches out to the Kingdom of Aurelianus, the sanctuary of magic, to make amends. As crown prince of said kingdom, Merlin is sent by his mother to be a diplomat. When he takes over the throne, something that is promised to be only a few years away, the results of this interaction, be it a treaty or something more, will be an important weight on Merlin’s reign as King. It is up to Merlin to make sure it goes right. 

Merlin is no longer the boy who ran away from his castle in the dead of night, nor the boy who ran away from his destiny in the early hours of the morning. He has grown into his own skin and wears the heft of a circlet easily on his ears. Each morning, Freya chides him to shave the scruff that grows along the sharp edges of his chin. As a Dragonlord, Merlin goes to Kilgharrah for advice and to help raise the next crop of dragonets from their eggs. 

In one instance, Kilgharrah is as cryptic as ever. He spouts of the legend that enraged Merlin to run away not so long ago, citing that Merlin will finally, properly, meet his match. The other side of his coin. The sun to his moon. He goes on for so long that Merlin is tempted to use his magic to shut up the dragon’s sickening prose. He doesn’t need to hear this story again and be reminded of the importance that this meeting holds. 

Though, Kilgharrah does offer some useful advice. “You should bring a gift, for the Lady Morgana. I am sure that the witch would enjoy a new friend.”

“Friend?” Merlin asked, “what do you mean?” 

At that, a brief chuckle of smoke leaves the wizened dragon’s snout. He nudges his head to the side, and Merlin looks over to where he has gestured. The white scales of another dragon glistens on the rocks, and innocent blue eyes gape at him. The dragon pushes out from behind Kilgharrah’s wings which had hid him, and extends his own to full height. “Lord Merlin,” the dragon says, “take me.”

Aithusa is the first dragon that Merlin ever hatched, from a long oblong egg as pure and unmarked as Aithusa stands before him now. There is only youth in Aithusa’s disposition, trusting and unrestrained. He can see that Aithusa is pulling on the restraints that hold him back, begging to be free. The same as Merlin had wished to be free, in all his attempts to leave home and see the world. 

“It isn’t safe,” Merlin sighs, shifting his hand so the back of it caresses Aithusa’s scaly neck. “Uther Pendragon hunted your kind to as near extinction as he could. They don’t even have a place for you to stay; you don’t belong in the stables with the horses.” 

A smirk, or as near as a dragon can make, crosses Aithusa’s features, and he preens. “I am much stronger than you give me credit for, Lord Merlin. And besides, I am sure that the Lady Morgana would never allow Uther near me. You should know that better than most.” Thinking back to the resolute expression on Morgana’s face when they parted, Merlin knows firsthand the truth in Aithusa’s statement. 

He agrees, but not before a playful thought crosses his mind. 

There is nothing quite like riding into Camelot dragonback, seeing the awestruck expression on everyone’s face (and the constipated one of Uther’s). 

Morgana steps forward into the courtyard, bypassing the authority of the King when she says, “Crown Prince Merlin of Aurelianus, Camelot welcomes you and extends its hand of friendship.” Merlin tries not to marvel too much of words he never imagined would be said in his lifetime. 

Dismounting from Aithusa, Merlin replies back, “Thank you, Princess Morgana. It is good to see you again, in different circumstances than I ever imagined possible.” 

“Yes well, if there’s one thing Camelot loves more than executing sorcerers,” Merlin can hear Uther cough heavily in the background, “it is welcoming others with feasts.”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur joins Morgana in place of their father’s obstinance. “We hope that the relations between our two kingdoms will be able to prosper. Prince Merlin, would you like someone to take your, erm, steed?” Merlin can tell that the other royal is stiff and uncomfortable in this position, likely warring with the part of him that wishes to strike down sorcerers where they stand. Merlin wonders if Arthur will even make the leap to recognize him from that day at the play, or if what he’s heard from Morgana is true and Arthur truly is the giant oaf she has made him out to be.

“Well, in fact, Aithusa is more than just a steed, as you put it. Lady Morgana, I hope that you will accept my most humble gift, the White Dragon.” 

Aithusa ambles forward, bowing his head at Morgana, “It would be a pleasure to serve you, my lady.” At that, Merlin waits out the chaos and surprise that comes from hearing a great beast speak until he is escorted to his chambers. 

-

It is a couple weeks before a treaty can be formally agreed to, and Merlin spends a majority of his time exploring the Kingdom of Camelot with Morgana by his side. They discussed a multitude of things, including Morgana’s current search for the Priestess Morgause from back on the Isle and her suspicions of their family ties, as well as Morgana’s past struggles to convince Uther’s council of advisors to decriminalize magic. He treasures the time between them, and even comes to know Morgana’s servant Guinevere, a soft-hearted girl who smiles at Merlin each time she passes him in the hallway.

But excluding mandatory obligations, Merlin spends no time in Arthur’s company. Sometimes he has caught glimpses of Arthur practicing with other knights of Camelot of watches at the window until the sessions are over. However, Merlin expects to leave home without ever having a proper conversation with him. Which is why he is surprised, and secretly a little delighted, when a servant comes to inform him of Arthur’s request. Taken to a small orchard, Merlin sees Arthur staring up the bark of a particular apple tree. 

“Prince Arthur,” Merlin greets, a little thrown off-guard by this unexpected meeting. 

“Prince Merlin, thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.” Stuck in this strange battle of formalities, Merlin sits down on a stone bench and waits for Arthur to continue. The blond paces around for a couple seconds before coming to a stop. “May I address you plainly, my lord?”

Merlin nods, silently glad to be done away with titles and courtly manners in what seems like such an important moment. 

“When the Lady Morgana revealed to the crowd that she had magic, I had no idea what I should feel. For the longest time, I considered Morgana to be my sister, even before I knew the truth. She was someone that I had come to count on in times I felt that I could not count on my father. And yet, seeing what she had done made me instinctively think that she was my enemy. In truth, I was horrified, both with her and myself.

“It took both my father and I quite a long time to come to grips with this reality. Honestly, I am still not so sure that my father isn’t stuck in a limbo. There were days in which he refused to come out of his chambers, days where I still wake up afraid that he had Morgana arrested in the night to be burned in the morning. For so long, I have been trained to consider all magic-users as evil, and yet the one soul that I knew could never be evil was also using magic.

“My father told me that my mother was killed through Lady Nimueh’s magic, and from then on he worked to ensure that no one could suffer the way that he and I had that day. For the longest time, I believed in the purity of his intentions. But I have started to see that not everything is as clear-cut as he has made it out to be. 

“I have never been able to imagine the world that I know Morgana dreams of, one where magic can coexist alongside happiness and goodness. I know that in your kingdom, it is more than just a dream--”

Merlin interrupts Arthur’s speech. “Are you saying that you want to come home with me?”

Arthur sputters, “Well I wouldn’t quite put it like that, but yes. My father has not given me permission, but I wish to see what Camelot could become now that magic is no longer to be a crime.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want the King to believe that I’ve kidnapped you,” Merlin jests, raising an eyebrow as Arthur fights the color that rises to his cheeks. 

“As if someone like you would be capable of laying a hand on me,” Arthur retorts, the solemnity of the occasion quickly dissipating.

“I wouldn’t have to use my hands,” Merlin responds, gesturing a bit obnoxiously and abstractly to himself. 

“Ah, yes, of course someone like you would resort to cheating in order to get the upper hand. Don’t think I don’t remember you from all those years ago. You tried to trick me to save your friend.” Arthur finally sits next to Merlin on the stone bench. “I’m sorry, at the time I believed that I truly had no other choice.”   
Merlin shakes his head wistfully, “Well at least you can apologize. I swear, I haven’t heard a word out of Uther’s mouth that hasn’t been some strange mix of condescending or constipated since I’ve arrived.”

“Hey! That’s the King you’re talking about.”

“Not my king,” Merlin corrects. “And besides, you can’t tell me it’s not true.”

Arthur gives Merlin a strange look, considering his dark hair that rustles in the breeze, and his blue eyes that hold a peculiar mirth within them. For a long moment, the two of them hold eye contact that threatens to turn itself into an eternity. Finally, however, Arthur looks away to start back at the apple tree that he was looking at originally. “There’s something about you Merlin. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Well, hopefully you’ll have some time in Aurelianus to figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so if you didn't get it it's like of merlin runs away from home in the other ones but this one is like, Merlin brings his "home" Arthur to his physically home, like a reversal. whatever.


End file.
